


Through Another's Eyes

by MiserableRu



Series: This is not how reincarnation works??? [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses, ジョジョの奇妙な冒険 | JoJo no Kimyou na Bouken | JoJo's Bizarre Adventure
Genre: Gen, Reincarnation fic, if miklan is a good bro to the 4 childhood friends of blue lions, kind of redemption fic for miklan?, second chances in life, spoiler: he's not alone in fe world, the tag will spoil you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:35:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24859270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiserableRu/pseuds/MiserableRu
Summary: He's not sure if this is how reincarnation works…Actually, nobody is sure how reincarnation really works.OrTime has a funny way to tell him that his life is not over just yet
Relationships: Glenn Fraldarius & Miklan, Miklan & the Blue Lions, Sylvain Jose Gautier & Miklan, or you can read it as someone with Miklan's body & everyone above
Series: This is not how reincarnation works??? [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1798573
Comments: 9
Kudos: 25
Collections: Quality Fics





	Through Another's Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Just force my younger sibling to watch jojo part 5 and she told me that she likes Bucciarati. 
> 
> Also lately, I've just finished my 2nd playthrough of FE 3 houses in Azure Moon's route and thought hey, what if--
> 
> And thus this fic was born
> 
> It's just a fun project though so sorry for any inaccuracy in it, yeah?

He died.

Had been since the first time the boss - or former boss - punched a hole through his chest. Willpower and his friend's unique ability alone chained him to the living for a time. Once he ran out, he's already willing to go where he should be, trusting fully on his friends to finish their journey.

This was a fine end to his messy life. Regrettably short, but nothing he wouldn't accept.

So.

Where is here anyway?

If this is the afterlife, is it just a vast emptiness? White as far as the eyes can see...

Well.

It isn't the worst thing to happen though…

Perhaps, he could imagine something to fill in the blank. Yes, this might be a blank canvas, but this would mean that he could fill it with whatever he loves. It is odd that the afterlife is empty though. Maybe this is a mark of a new beginning?

He sits down and closes his eyes. It is easy to think up every detail from the small restaurant he frequented. A smile pulls at the corner of his lips as he imagines the crowds eating in each of their tables. Softens when he remembers his friends, sitting on their favorite table as they bicker like children without parents. 

The mere thought warms his heart.

Wait...warmth? He presses a hand on his chest, surprised to feel it warm complete with constant beating of a...heart?

Is he alive then?

But if not the afterlife, what exactly is this place, then?

 _Oh...oh dear...you aren't supposed to be here…_ a voice echoes from beyond the emptiness.

Who? his mind immediately thinks.

 _A good question, child, one that I am afraid I can't answer clearly_ the voice says, _perhaps you could call me ‘the beginning’. Of 'what' is an inquiry I can't provide you with any answer_.

He tilts his head, confused. He’s dead, he knows this much, and apparently there’s a place beyond death. With a stranger who’s currently speaking with him, calling themselves ‘the beginning’. Are… they a god? Or something of equal value? He’s not reliant on a higher being so he supposes that’s the extent of his knowledge on how to call them.

_Why, I’m flattered that you think highly of me. Unfortunately, as I’ve answered you before, I haven’t even the faintest idea of what I am. Only that I am ‘the beginning’._

He nods then, bringing a hand over his very much warm chest and bows, as if introducing himself without words. His lips open naturally, words at the tip of his tongue to say his name. A voice comes out of his mouth, formed by his throat, but it sounds garbled, _inhuman_. He stops abruptly and presses a palm around his throat. 

Something gentle caresses the top of his palm and he shoots a look toward the empty air. There really is someone here, not some omniscient presence with a voice that echoes across the vast expanse of his mind. 

_I can hear what you can’t speak, child. Focus on words you want me to comprehend. Be calm_

He follows their lead. 

_Hmm...a foreign name from another foreign soul_ he can hear the intrigued pull on that sentence, _...I wonder what brought you here too, in this space between time_

He does not know as well. Wherever he is, he has no idea how he got here or even why. As far as he knows, he’s already dead. Body slowly rotted as the only thing keeping it alive ebbed away into nothingness. 

_You’ve been through quite an ordeal for a mere mortal, haven't you? I suppose I could at least commend your strong will and determination to see your story through_ they huff, half out of pity and half curious, _...but this is most bizarre. Why would you exist here, in a space I shouldn’t have existed as well? I could probably convince myself of a reason to my existence, but not yours_

The question is where he actually is. They said that this is a space between time; an impossibility for that would mean that time has stopped. 

A chuckle cuts his train of thought and he lifts his head, looking around to find the origin of said voice, _Sometimes I forgot how you humans overthink about everything. Time is just a concept, one that people perceived in universal understanding,_ he could hear them smirking, _...imagine a line with points. Time is not an arrow, but a line. It stays stagnant where we who succumbs under its power has to move forward from one point to another_

Is it that simple? He thinks with a deep frown. For his question, he earns another chuckle, lighter this time, more _real_ to his ears. 

_Yes, yes it is. We are currently standing on the line between one point to another. For us, time does not exist so we can either go forward or backward as we please. At least, I think I could do that, I do not think you can. Not without help_

It’s a powerful ability to have, frightening even. Unwillingly, memories of his last moment fleet past his mind, reminding him of how _monstrous_ one who could control time can be. 

_I...am sorry that you have to go through that. However, I can’t change what had happened in the past for you in that world_

He doesn’t mind that. Being dead isn’t the worst thing to happen after all. 

_But time exists for every world that is in existence. Your world, my world, under time, they all are one and the same world_ they suddenly make an excited exclamation, a snap of fingers reverberates the area around him, _...how about we make a deal?_

A deal? With you? 

_Yes, who else can you ask? You are very much alone in this space with me as your companion. Temporary as it may be_ they say rather jovially as if they hadn’t just told him that they would leave. A strange tug of loneliness gripes at his chest and he pointedly tries to ignore it. 

_Oh, already missing my presence?_ they tease. 

He gives a nod, yes, he would miss their existence in this empty world, why wouldn’t he? They grow quiet at that and he tries to call out in that strange voice to ensure their presence. 

_For a mortal, you’re awfully honest..._ they mutter, _...oh, right, the deal. Let’s return to the deal, shall we?_

* * *

One moment, between the lines of time where the world stops, a light appears. If one had the privilege to listen, they would hear a song being sung in a hum. And soft whispers of a single soul. Broken and battered but whole; full of determination to exist. A gentle lullaby flits by, sending it off with a faint goodbye. 

_(As skillful as I might be, I still can't create a body for you, that is a fact)_

Then it slips into time, weaved through its seam, leaving no evidence of what it had altered. 

_(But luckily, I know someone who might want a little trade-off if I tug the right string)_

* * *

It is the first day as a squire for the young man. He has woken up at near dawn, gently shifting his little brother's hand from clutching at his shirt and slips out to refresh himself. Splashing cool water to his sleepy face is usually enough, though this time, he makes sure to scrub himself clean as well. Being clean would be a luxury for the next few weeks. 

Finally dressed in a simple tunic and pants, he walks back to his room, snatching bread when he passes by the kitchen. His little brother is still fast asleep when he enters the room. With his absence, the younger boy has grabbed onto the next best warm thing and cuddled into the blanket. Letting out a chuckle, he pats the boy’s forehead to brush a stray dark blue lock. 

He whispers a ‘goodbye’ and rises to grab the sheathed sword on the wooden cabinet. 

The door closes quietly and he shuffles toward the dining hall. His father would be there, either eating or having conversation with the servants. He stops short before the door and fixes his tousled hair, tying it in a low ponytail. There, that should keep any stray lock from interrupting. 

“Good morning, father” he greets as he opens the door; a small simple courtly manner. True to his assumption, his father is seated on the chair, a plate of what seems to be this morning’s breakfast to his front and a few papers on his hands. Dark blue eyes twinkle at his arrival and his father greets back, almost too cheerily. 

He wastes no time to slide into his own seat; a servant quickly places a plate in front of him, bowing slightly as he murmurs a thanks. “How are you feeling today, son?” his father says, putting down the paper in favor of focusing his attention to what he’s going to say. “Excited, definitely. They would never see who's coming to join them” he answers confidently. It’s a rehearsed answer, however, and his father's amused smile is enough to make him crack, “All right, I admit, I feel a little nervous today. Please don’t tell Felix I said that last part though...” he adds hastily. 

A genuine laugh slips out of his father’s lips and he couldn’t help the grin on his face despite how flustered he feels. Both father and son spend the rest of their breakfast eating in silence. Occasionally they share a short exchange - about his weapon, about his little brother who had been spending the night in his room lately - that mostly ends in a smile or a short laugh. 

After his plate has been cleaned, he stands up to face his father. With his clenched fist in front of his chest, he bows; a wordless greeting and a promise to come back better. When he looks up, the fondness in his father’s eyes is perfectly clear and he couldn’t be more proud. 

“It might be best for you to wait in the foyer. They will be arriving shortly” his father says. Giving him one last salute, he turns to leave. 

“Glenn,” his father calls and he stops midway, cocking his head to the side, “...Margrave Gautier’s son is with them. Please do get along with him” 

This is the first time he hears that Gautier’s son would be there and the knowledge surprises him. He knows Margrave Gautier’s heir, young Sylvain with his bright eyes and easy smile. But isn’t he a bit too young to be appointed squire? The boy is barely eight - two years older than Felix. 

His father is quick to guess what’s on his mind and generously elaborates it for him, “Right, you might have never seen him since his birth is a bit...unfortunate. He is Margrave Gautier’s first son, older brother to little Sylvain” 

First son, but not an heir? 

He remembers Margrave Gautier when the noble had visited their territory with the three year old Sylvain on tow. How proud the Margrave was as he bragged about his heir that would definitely grow up to be a son he’s proud of. Sylvain, of course, clueless and naive just stared up at him, asking wordlessly if he could see one year old Felix in his arms. 

And only now that he knows that Sylvain is not the only Gautier’s son. 

_Ah..._

He thinks back to the praises that Margrave Gautier showered him -and Felix- by merely bearing Fraldarius’ crest and understands what had happened in its entirety. 

“He’s strong enough to be accepted into the squire under the king's knights despite this unfortunate circumstances you speak of," he starts, "...he'll be a worthy foe to spar with” he finishes, ignoring his father's sigh as he leaves, already itching for a fight. 

* * *

_Being polite as ever, he asked the soul of the reason that it gave up that easily._

_The soul was quiet for a full minute, then abruptly, it growled devilishly, “I’d rather die than live with that kind of future...” it spat, “...how dare that old man do that to me...did he even know what he had forced me to do? How many years had I spent trying to prove him wrong?”_

_It kept going, rambling and cursing at the life it would lead should it chose not to allow him in. He listened on, patient. Until finally, with one final word of hatred, the soul turned at him and said, “I can’t love him. Not if my old man kept his belief,” it flickered and he could sense a faint regret in its tone, “...maybe if we had been born different then...”_

_There was sympathy in his voice, an invitation caught in his non existent throat for the soul to stay with him._

_It left after, not even turning back once to see the life it had forfeited._

_He watched the soul dissipated, feeling an underlying affection that could be there yet not. It was buried far too deep underneath its hatred to show itself and he wonders if it could grow strong enough without his intervention._

* * *

Miklan Anschutz Gautier is an odd man. 

His red hair is trimmed neatly just barely reaching his shoulders with braids woven atop his head and a few untamed locks straying from its pin. His eyes are amber brown, staring resolutely ahead when they introduce one another. He carries himself with confidence and despite being a direct descendant of Gautier without crest, the older Gautier seems not to find it quite a problem. 

"Crest does not define your strength," was what he said when he asked, "...you yourself should define your own strength" 

He throws a training spear at him - Miklan catches it easily - and points his own sword at his chosen foe. _Prove it_ he conveys through the stance he wields after. Miklan looks thoughtful for a moment before he sighs and assumes a combative stance. They gauge one another briefly, before he makes the first move, thrusting his sword straight to his sparring partner’s chest. 

A noise of surprise escapes Miklan, though his reaction is quick. Ducking, his foe retaliates with a wide arching sweep to his legs. It is hard to abort a momentum, but he managed - barely - to stumble away from the spear’s reach with a graceless roll. Shamelessly, he scrabbles back to his feet and stares at his foe. Only to find a foot right in front of his face, stopping short of grazing his nose. 

Miklan's taciturn face comes to his view when his gaze shifts downward. Amber brownish eyes set in determined glare - sending shivers down his spine. He might have treated every spar like a legit fight, but that gaze doesn't seem to treat this as a fight. More like a struggle to the death. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, a bit too angrily, “...not finishing the job properly?” he cocks his head toward the foot right up at his face. 

Slowly, Gautier lets his leg down and Glenn releases a silent breath of relief despite himself. He’s tensed, the dark haired boy notes as he clenches and unclenches his own fist. His sight turns back to Miklan’s face, who has once more assumed a mask of indifference. “I apologize for getting too carried away...” the older boy says, giving him a slight, too polite bow to his liking. 

“Apology not accepted” he says and revels in the way the mask cracks on Gautier’s face when he snaps his head back up. With a grin, he grips tighter to his sword as his whole muscles coiled, ready to spring forth. Miklan looks startled for a moment, something he would chalk as a win - despite the outcome of this sparring session. 

After what seems to be a stupidly long period of pause, Miklan finally sets his jaw and returns to his previous stance, spear ready to skewer his foe. 

Regardless of the result, he’s pleased to finally find a worthy sparring partner. Even if he rarely shows anything but indifference. 

(Glenn Fraldarius is an odd man, he thought, lips quirked to a small hint of a smile) 

* * *

Sylvain was four years old when one of his brother's friends pushed him into an abandoned well while calling him a 'cheater'. 

He yelled, of course, and scraped his knees on the thin ice located at the bottom of the well. His chest quickly tightened as choked sobs sputtered out of his lips. Fear clutched at his heart when the sting of his wound bit into his skin. It wasn't a deep well, but it's far too deep for his little body. 

Perhaps he should have felt lucky that it was dry. 

But at that moment, the four year old child could only cry out, calling out pitifully for help. 

When none came to his aid, the fear multiplied and he honest to goddess cried in earnest. Blunt nails scrambled up the slippery wall while his leather boots climbed uselessly against the wall. He fell again, hurting his behind on the ice until he was sure it would change color. Like that one time his big brother fell and hurt his knee. 

Shaking his head, his gaze darted around, searching for any leverage which could help him out. His eyes caught sight of a rope, dangling tantalizingly close yet so far. He stood on his tiptoes, wishing, hoping that he could reach. Unfortunately, his fingers couldn't even reach a short distance below the rope. 

Grunting, he leapt for the rope. 

And fell to the icy mud, probably hurting everything that had yet to be hurt without a significant progress to the surface. 

The pain grew numb as his breath shortened. He gradually understood that there's no way he would be able to climb out by himself. Fear clawed at him, tearing into his mind. Would he be trapped down here forever? 

Tears quickly spilled down his cheeks as he rubbed furiously at them, upset that he was crying like a baby. It didn’t stop, however, and he found his tears falling over and over until he was breathless. He hadn’t even realized that he had stopped attempting to climb out and curled in on himself instead, making his small form even smaller. 

What if he gets hungry? Who would feed the horses if he’s here? His big brother would be so worried he wouldn’t eat and it would all be his fault for getting trapped down the well. His stomach suddenly growled, as if reinforcing the idea that he would get so hungry he’d probably eat anything. 

As his thoughts slowly consumed him, he heard a small voice. It was barely audible and if he didn’t strain his ears, he wouldn’t hear it. But the voice was there; so far and so close at the same time. 

It spelt his name and he cried out to catch its attention. 

The voice stilted, then with renewed vigor it repeated, getting closer and closer until he recognized the soft timbre of his brother's voice. 

"Miklan!" he shouted, ending the powerful shout in a series of coughs. The voice halted and his heart clenched in hope. 

Almost a little too long after the silence, his brother's face peers over the well. Worry etches into the older boy's face as he squints and perks up in realization. "Sylvain!" his brother calls and oh, he couldn't help the relief washing over him. Tears of delight poured over as he babbled to his brother, pleading for help and please, please don't leave him... 

"Alright, wait there, I'll get someone to help you out of there!" 

"NO! No! Big brother, don't--" he hiccuped, "...please don't leave me alone…" 

He continued to sob, begging for his brother not to go. It was selfish of him, he knew, but if that familiar face disappeared from his sight… 

“Okay,” Miklan said, soft, gentle, like he was talking to the newborn baby horse, “...okay, but I want you to listen to me, will that be okay?...” his brother asked, reassuring. He nodded vigorously, sniffling. 

The rope above his head lowered and he spotted Miklan's grip on the other end. "Can you grab the rope?" his brother asked. He nodded and did as he was told. It felt brittle, but he trusted that his brother would not let go. “Sylvain, I want you to tie the rope around your waist. Remember the knot that the stablehand taught you?” Miklan spoke, comforting. He nodded furiously, faint images of the old guy in the stable demonstrating how to tie a knot on his stead appeared inside his head. 

“Good, make sure you tied it firmly” 

His tiny hands were trembling as they wrapped the rope around his stomach twice and started with the knot. It was hard, he was shivering and many a time he missed the loop. But his brother was speaking with him along the way, praising his effort and encouraging him to continue. Once the rope was firmly secured, he looked up and managed a shaky smile. 

Miklan let out a relieved sigh, “Excellent. Now, grab the rope with your hand-- no, use both of them, hug it, yes just like that. Do not ever let go. I’m going to pull you up,” he felt a tug and the rope was pulled taut, “...it might hurt a bit and I want you to tell me if it’s too much” his brother said, hands tightened on the other end of the rope. 

Then he was hoisted upward. 

He was startled enough to lose his grip and with it his balance. Panic rushed through his head as he was dangled in the well by the stomach; his arms and legs flailing as if he could gain balance by struggling. Something akin to pitiful babbles poured out of his lips as he asked for help and please, please just help-- 

“Sylvain!” 

Like thunder, his brother barked his name and his cry stopped abruptly. 

“Do you remember that time when one of the foals fell into a shallow river and panicked?” Miklan said; his tone assumed a much, much softer tone than his previous yell. 

Foal...fell? Oh, right, he remembered that clear as day. It was the first time he was allowed to follow his big brother to walk with the newborn foals. It was…a three weeks old male foal and he got excited with everything in the path they took. He sniffed at berries hanging on the bushes or the strong wildflowers that can only be spotted when the weather is warm. 

Most of the time, Miklan would keep him by his side or if not him, Sylvain would be entrusted with the honor of holding the foal’s rein. Occasionally, he let the dark-furred foal roam around, led by his own curiosity. And it was in one of those rare times that the young foal drifted too far and slipped into a shallow brook. 

It was not deep, barely reaching his waist - and Miklan's knees - but the foal was too frightened to realize that he could stand and not be swallowing water. His brother had calmly pulled at his rein, gently cradling the young equine’s neck until he stopped struggling and stood harmlessly on the brook. 

_Oh…_

He stopped flailing and met his brother's gaze. "You made him calm down" he replied, "...and then he was okay…" he finished, feeling less afraid. Miklan's lips tugged into something akin to a smile, "You remember it well, brother. Now can you reach for the rope again?" the older Gautier said. Sylvain gave it a try, managing to wrap his fingers around it. "Now pull yourself until you're upright, yes, that's it, great job, Sylvain" something underneath his chest grew warm at the praise. 

Slowly, methodically, he's pulled upward. Miklan made sure that he didn't jerk at the rope too hard. Every minute felt like an hour, but the concern his brother expressed through caring questions were enough to keep him going. 

And then something snapped just above his head. 

It lasted a second, but he felt like falling, pulled back to the cruel frozen bottom. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for a harsh impact. 

But it truly only lasted for a second before his hand was snatched and his fall stopped abruptly. The hand on his was his brother's, he knew this, but he wasn't nowhere near the mouth of the well when he fell. So how… 

"I got you…" his brother said, breathless; in pain and he dared to peer up. 

It was his brother's hand. 

_It wasn't attached to his brother._

* * *

Dimitri was fourteen when a tragedy occured. 

(But he survived) 

Glenn was lost to the commotion - what could he tell Felix? - and his father was nowhere to be seen. 

(How did he survive?) 

Footsteps, screams, the crackling sound of fire burning through...something (no, not people, no, he refused to register the smell of burnt fle-- _meat_ ); everything filled his ears and eyes with agonizing pain. He remembered a mask. White and red; calm, cruel, _cold_. The Flame Emperor, they had introduced themselves while leaving destruction on their wake. 

__(Where was he?)_ _

__“Dimitri!” he heard someone say. It’s not unfamiliar - someone he knew quite well. A shock of red hair entered his peripheral vision and his head snapped up to the two figures scrambling into his hiding spot._ _

(Red and yellow and red and red and _red_...) 

__“...Fa-” his breath stuttered, “...Father...” he said, reaching toward the unconscious figure slumped in the other’s hold._ _

__“The king is going to be fine, your highness,” said the red haired figure, “...how about you? Are you holding up alright?” his father was placed carefully beside him as gloved hands patted him down, checking for wounds._ _

__He was too fixated on his father’s body to register the question._ _

__(His father is alive...)_ _

__They were quiet when he checked his father, feeling each slow breath he took and his warmth. It's too quiet to his liking; the young knights his father brought had always had something to say..._ _

__“Where’s Glenn?” he asked abruptly. The image of Felix - stifling a cry as they departed for Duscur - involuntarily flashed through his mind. He saw the figure flinched and turned his attention -finally- to the disheveled look of the knight. His red hair was messed up, a few tips of the flaring lock were singed black. Across his face down from his forehead above his right eyes to his left cheek was a fresh scar; still bleeding. Dimitri swallowed a worried question about the other's well being and repeated himself._ _

__“Miklan...where’s Glenn?” he asked slowly. Perhaps he hadn’t heard him and maybe Glenn was just outside - Felix’s brother is strong, he wouldn’t have--_ _

__There was blood, dripping from Miklan’s lips, white teeth digging into the plush of his lower lip as the knight averted his eyes, seeing nothing._ _

__“I’m sorry...”_ _

__He hadn’t even fully understood what he meant by that when hasty footsteps and murmured conversation fleeted past their hiding spot. Miklan immediately perked up, shoving both him and his father behind him as he unsheathed his spear. A finger was pressed onto his lips and he watched with bated breath as the knight shifted slowly to peer over the small opening hidden by the vines._ _

__“...should be here...”_ _

__“...the blood...”_ _

__Miklan quickly retracted himself, eyeing the vines with a sharp, cautious glare. “What is it?” he asked in a whisper. The knight paused, seemingly contemplative as he closed his eyes. When they opened, he swore he could see a flash of brilliant blue on the amber orbs “Your highness, what I’m about to do is something I wish you would not question”_ _

__“What...are you going to do?” Dimitri asked, eyes darting between Miklan and the light streaming between the vines. Then, the knight punched on the far wall of the tree. The action itself was confusing, but the result it bore stunned him into silence._ _

__From the tip of Miklan's fist where it met the wood, a fissure spread and the wood peeled. As the thin skin of wood peeled further, he could see nothingness, an empty space of nothing that shouldn’t exist. “Please get in” the knight said as he propped his father against the hole in the tree._ _

Pointing at the hole, he opened his mouth, wordless confusion choked at the back of his throat. Miklan couldn’t have it though and apologetically shoved him into the nothingness. “I’ll answer your question later, your highness, but for now, please, _please_ don’t question it” the knight said as he followed along, dragging the unconscious king in his arms. 

__Then, he closed the opening by running his hand through the seam, closing it._ _

__He managed not to ask a question for about a minute._ _

__“How...?” he said, curling his fist against the nearest fabric -his father’s thick cape- to ground himself. Miklan hesitated, “I couldn’t explain it fully myself, your highness, it was...” the knight answered, gesturing to their surroundings vaguely, “...something tied closely to my soul” he ended finally, seemingly not knowing the correct words to explain himself._ _

__Something Miklan was born with? Does Sylvain have the same kind of ability? Is this the power of Gautier's crest? No, he knows Gautier's crest does not dabble in the realm of magic. Besides, Miklan does not have a crest...right? Questions rushed through the back of his head, pushing words to his tongue that he halted with great effort._ _

__Dimitri let his gaze wander around the so-called space. It’s just emptiness and nothing else, like a plain room without any function but to stay._ _

__It was scary to be among the empty space of nothingness, but it felt safe. At least compared to what's out there._ _

__His gaze turned toward the knight. The scar on his face was still bleeding - prominent on his paling skin. Miklan's hand on the lance was tight, his shoulders tensed in anticipation._ _

__Exhausted...Sylvain's brother was drained yet insistent on doing everything in his ability to protect both him and his father._ _

__He huddled closer to his unconscious father, “I do not wish to upset you so I will stop asking...” he said. Miklan looked beyond relief upon hearing his statement. The knight gave him a deep bow and promised a certain tale once they came out of here alive._ _

__(He never did get to hear the tale though, he’s lost in the ghost of Glenn every time he tries to remember the promise - whispering revenge to his ears)_ _

* * *

__Felix was fourteen when Glenn’s sword came home by itself. Nestled inside a familiar cape bearing Fraldarius’s insignia and held in the grasp of his brother’s friend - Sylvain’s big brother. He didn’t cry, of course, knowing fully well that his brother must’ve gone down with one hell of a fight if the dulled end of his blade and the crack across its sheen were some proof to be accounted for._ _

__His brother always made sure that his blade is sharp as claws; an advice that he bestowed to Felix’s ears every now and then. That a knight’s sword is their third hand; it needs caring so it wouldn’t betray you when you have to count on it the most._ _

__The king and Dimitri were there too, bowing in apology while telling stories of his brave deeds._ _

__Which was most likely a simple woven tale. Glenn did not fight like a true knight - he fought like he would claim victory if it is the last thing he does. So he stopped listening halfway, only present there just to be respectful of the king. Thankfully, Dimitri stood by his side as recounts were being told. He gripped the prince's hands as if to keep himself there. After all, he couldn't excuse himself to mourn alone in his room._ _

__Then, his father had spoken those accursed words. That Glenn had died as an honorable knight, fulfilling his duty to the very end._ _

__He snapped at that._ _

__Because it was not just a knight who died; it’s Glenn. Not a random knight in service to the king, but his own son. So why wouldn’t his father be proud of Glenn instead of praising the duty bestowed onto him that he fulfilled?_ _

__To his surprise, Sylvain’s brother abruptly fell to his knees before him. The sound of his armor clanging against the stone pathway rang loudly across the field that even other servants who had been trying their best not to listen in, turned their head in surprise._ _

__“I’ve known Glenn for years and I’ve never seen a braver, more reckless, and powerful soul like he had,” he said, voice firm and unshaken, “...to many, he was a knight of great renown. To the kingdom, he was a hero. To his father, he was a son he couldn't be more proud of. But to me, he would always be that silly, hot-headed youth who stormed into my life with sword in hand and pride on carrying his name and duty”_ _

__There was sincere affection in those amber eyes Miklan met his gaze with, “He was the strongest swordsman I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing and I would never be prouder to call him my good friend,” the older man said, gaze softened, "...aren't you proud of your brother like I do?"_ _

__…_ _

__Felix was fourteen when he both lost and gained a brother._ _

__(He knows grief intimately; seen it, experienced it, even became its subject, once)_ _

__(He wouldn't let Glenn's brother spirals down through the wrong path in grief)_ _

* * *

__Ingrid was eight when she watched her fiance become a knight of the Royal Guard._ _

__Her eyes gleamed in excitement as the proceeding started and the king gave his speech; an encouragement for the young souls to follow the example of those presented before the dukes. She watched unblinkingly as king Lambert led the ceremony, beckoning the names of worthy knights and bestowed upon them their title._ _

__Beside her, Sylvain was smiling toothily while puffing his chest as if it was him who had received the title, not the older Gautier. So she jabbed him with her elbow and ignored his affronted look in favor of clapping along with the crowd as Sylvain’s brother raised and bowed to the king. She couldn’t help but be giddy when Glenn’s name was called. Felix seemed to share her excitement though as he, too, tried to stand on his tiptoes - wide eyed with unrestrained adoration on his face._ _

__She clapped as hard as she could when Glenn rose, only stopping because her father told her to behave._ _

__Once the ceremony was over, she dashed toward Glenn, waving her hands excitedly. He replied with one hand as the other was occupied by Felix - who grabbed at his brother’s hand and insisted to walk with him everywhere. It didn’t matter though, she’s here to speak with Glenn and Felix is quieter than Sylvain so his presence is always welcomed._ _

__"I'm happy you're here, Ingrid" said Glenn and she snorted at how formal the other always insisted to sound in public. "You know me, I will not miss this kind of ceremony even if it is not yours" she said earnestly, punching at the older man's side. Glenn chuckled at her remark, his free hand shot up to tousle her hair much to her dismay._ _

__Her father had told her to look proper and the newly appointed knight seemed keen not to allow her that - Glenn knows her too well. “How does it feel to finally be a knight?” she asked once he stopped ruffling her hair. There was a twinkle on his dark blue eyes as his other hand moved to card through Felix’s cropped hair, “It feels like a...knight, I suppose,” he said shortly, muffling a chuckle when her excitement dimmed, “...it’s true, there is no significant different, Ingrid, I’m still me, though with fancier title and new duties”_ _

__But she wanted to know more. How does it feel to be by the king’s side, serving him as a knight to protect both the kingdom and their liege? Every knight she read in books seemed to feel honored, responsible, and transformed through their duty into someone better. Glenn was already admirable - if not a tad intimidating - to everyone, of course being a knight supposed to make him even better._ _

“Mind if we join this little celebration, _sir_ Glenn?” someone said and she immediately perked up. Sylvain sidled up to her side, grinning sunnily as his brother waved toward Felix’s brother. Glenn’s grin turned impossibly wide, “But of course, _sir_ Miklan, provided if you would do the honor of paying for the lunch’s expense later” he said, feigning a bow. 

__Miklan snorted at his reply before catching her eyes and bowed, “Hello there, Ingrid, Felix” he greeted, adding Glenn's brother when he spotted him and she smiled, waving a ‘hello’, “...are you here to congratulate him?” the older Gautier asks._ _

__She was about to answer when a voice cut in, “She’s always there when a knighting ceremony is involved,” Sylvain said nonchalantly, “...said she wants to be a knight in service to the kingdom and whatnots even though she’s a girl”_ _

__“And is that wrong?” Her lips were halfway opened when Miklan had already reacted, frowning at his own brother. She was too surprised to even add in her own two coins on his question._ _

__“Nah,” the younger Gautier said easily as he brought both his hands up to twine them behind his head, “...she can be whatever she wants. Besides, she’s scary enough to be a knight”_ _

__Whether it was a compliment or insult was moot. If Sylvain thinks she could become a knight then she'll chalk it off as a belief in her ability to achieve so. “Why, thank you for your confidence in me, Gautier. I’ll make sure to be a wonderful knight in the future to scare you from hitting on my grandmother” she said with a wide smirk._ _

__There was a pause in the air as everyone present - saved for Sylvain who blanched - processed her words. Then, with a nervous grin, Sylvain excused himself, not waiting for anyone to reply as he took off, probably to find somewhere safe for the time being. His brother went from neutral to calm fury in the span of five seconds after his hasty departure._ _

__“What did I say about jokingly hit on someone, Sylvain?” the older Gautier said seethingly as he set off to find his brother - and most likely talk some sense into him._ _

__“Is it true?” a voice chirped in and she turned toward Glenn, to be specific, toward his younger brother who was now staring at her with an amused pair of amber red eyes. Felix looked interested and who was she not to tell a good story to an interested audience?_ _

__So she told him the tale of young Gautier somehow having enough thick skull to send a flirtatious remark to a woman nearly six times his age. It was both brave and stupid as her grandmother was still a renowned pegasus knight with tale of her deeds spoken reverently among her family._ _

__“She’s a pegasus knight?” he asked, sincerely curious. Her eyes twinkled as she explained about Galatea’s history, being entrusted to become the kingdom’s official pegasus and falcon knights. And that she would become one in the future to serve the king and her kingdom._ _

__A pat on her head shifted her gaze toward Glenn, whose smile widened when their gaze met. "You would be a wonderful knight, Ingrid," he said fondly, "...and we can start training together for that, you know! I would love to spar with a pegasus knight to be!"_ _

__Warmth blossomed beneath her chest as she nodded furiously, promising her consent in the future to train together._ _

__Ingrid was eight when she swore she would achieve her dream._ _

__(She turned fourteen when the promise was broken)_ _

__(And fifteen when she rode her first pegasus to Glenn's grave by herself)_ _

__(She never did notice that both Gautier were following her, making sure no stray hunters with a bow tried to interrupt her flight)_ _

* * *

__Byleth has no idea what to think about Sylvain's brother who comes barreling into the tower on a white stallion. His red hair is trimmed neatly, though his locks have become tousled during his rush toward the frontline. There's a scar on his face, from his eyebrows down to his left cheeks across his nose._ _

__The sight puzzles them momentarily, “Ah, are you Sylvain’s homeroom teacher? It is very nice to finally meet you, though I wish we could meet under a more pleasant circumstance,” he says quickly as his spear poised toward their target, “...now, let’s not waste time and dispose of the enemy, yes?”_ _

__He is an experienced fighter and the new professor admits that his presence is a great help to the exhausted Blue Lions. Without question, he delves into the thick of it, swinging his spear toward the black beast and not letting up until it is over. As the beast falls, leaving black ichor and the Lance of Ruin, the red haired knight bows at what remains of the thief, his lips moving as if speaking a prayer._ _

_”The thief is one of my brother’s friends...” Sylvain said as they marched to the tower of Black Winds. They asked him to explain. Their student grimaced, “See, you know the conflict about me being the heir because I have a crest while my brother is being shoe-horned to the side?” they didn’t know this, regardless, they simply nod, “...yeah, some of my brother’s friends think that it’s unfair. And before you say anything, professor, Miklan is a really good big brother and friend, too good that his friend would probably die for him. He’d never allow that, obviously, but that besides the point”_

_“So they stole the relic for your brother?” they asked, more out of confirmation than seeking answers._

_Sylvain grimaced and nodded wordlessly._

__After he finishes, he picks up the Gautier’s relic and sheathes it to his back. Only then that he formally introduces himself. “My name is Miklan Anschutz Gautier. I apologize for my late arrival, there's a few...snags on the route” the knight says, bowing. Byleth bows back, tells him their name and asks whether he wanted to know how Sylvain is doing in his class._ _

__“Hold it, professor, that’s classified!” Sylvain intercepts hastily._ _

__“Why, I would be honored” Miklan accepts politely._ _

__Byleth eyes their student with a raised eyebrow and the red haired student immediately clamps up. A slight flush appears on both of his cheeks as he mutters something under his breath and turns back to the group of students. Briefly, they note the out of character blush on their usually confident student before turning back to ask the brother when they notice the fond look on the older Gautier._ _

__It catches them off guard - that pure affection look that only appears occasionally from their father’s face. They rarely saw such an open look of care on someone’s face so having that suddenly being displayed in front of them surprises them. Miklan notices them and his face shifts, assuming a neutral formal face, “Is there something wrong?” he asks._ _

__They shake their head and gesture toward the crowding students, inviting him to join their group to return back to the monastery. Miklan thanks them for their permission as he slips among the lions - with his horse no less - and is easily welcomed by their students. Both Dimitri and Ingrid are quick to sidle by his sides, starting a talk with the older knight easily._ _

__Sulking, Sylvain keeps to Felix’s side, probably ranting about his newly arrived brother. In return, the usually curt student has this small smirk on his face as he replies the rant with something which prompts Gautier to send him this betrayed look. Other students seem to find the situation a bit baffling as they tread carefully around the newly formed group with the knight in the middle._ _

__It doesn’t last long, though, as Miklan notices the weird literal gap and openly asks them to join in, offering a tale of his journey to anyone who would want to listen. Or even better, jokes about telling a story from Sylvain’s childhood life. Something that garners many attention both positive - Mercedes, who seems interested to know her friends more - and negative - Sylvain, who immediately tackles his brother in horror._ _

__Nevertheless, their journey back is lively._ _

__(Sothis looks smug during the whole journey back. They ask her why and her smile grows wider)_ _

__(She offers no answer)_ _

* * *

__A fine young man, she remarks, eyeing the polite knight from Gautier house from head to toe before winking as a habitual flirt slips out of her lips._ _

__He chuckles at her praise and bows, offering a praise of his own for her; a polite, not exaggerated remark that seems sincere. If she falls a little bit for him because of that, it wouldn’t be her fault entirely._ _

__Beside her, Hanneman has already begun a lecture toward their young coworker as he usually would do to anyone. Instinctively, she intends to bite back, falling into their habit of having small arguments about their differing view of the world._ _

__“But isn’t it wrong not to compliment someone when a compliment is due, sir Hanneman?” the young man says. Genuinely questioning why the older professor denied someone a compliment. Hanneman is quiet for a moment, wordless at the unexpected reaction. Then, with a cough, he answers, “I suppose not, but with Manuela, a mere compliment can spiral into exaggerated tales about her fame” and ends it with a huff._ _

She reacts _now_ , snapping at his remark indignantly. 

__They bicker for a bit, probably embarrassing themselves in front of their new staff though eventually end up on a positive note as the young knight placated them both with well-meaning words that came out as sincere. Hanneman had even got stunned to silence at one point and opted not to elaborate further about what he had wanted to say._ _

__This interests her further. Every nobility she met is taught to add lips to everything they say - to charm people to their side, winning the hearts of the public. Never had she met someone so honest, blunt and pure. Not naive, oh no, she knows that the young man knows what he's doing. But he does not tell a blatant lie either._ _

__(She knows how saccharine sweet praises sound like, her life dealt with them most of the time after all)_ _

__“You are an honest fellow, aren’t you?” she says, nudging his shoulder before they part ways._ _

__A strange look passes his face briefly as he smiles; polite, controlled, “So I am told“ he replies._ _

* * *

__Edelgard knew that something is odd about the weapon instructor. Not Jeritza, obviously, she, at least knows Jeritza. This is a Gautier, the older one who bears no crest yet showed enough capability to be appointed as the monastery's new staff replacing the empty spot that Jeritza had left them with._ _

__He’s polite, kind, and clever; a deadly combination that could win people’s hearts and respects without them knowing what had happened. A single spar was enough to tell her that he’s calculative and adaptable as well, not reliant on one strategy to deal with every reaction during combat._ _

__But what she only found out today is how he could be somewhat cruel._ _

__She turns her gaze at his form, standing before her with an unreadable look. Behind him, Dimitri is seated, forcefully. With magic - she has convinced herself to call it that - an outstanding spell which could separate limbs from people's body yet keep them alive._ _

__Currently, the crown prince is missing one leg or to be precise, has his right leg detached from his person. It would look horrifying if there's blood as a result. But there's none, and Dimitri didn't howl in pain. Perhaps it is also due to how his lips had been sewn shut by invisible force. Muffled threatening scream would probably be heard if she can hear his words._ _

__In short, Dimitri looks awfully pissed, not hurt._ _

__Her attention returns to the Gautier knight. She is quite impressed by the fact that this man has not even hesitated to cripple the prince he's supposed to serve. A strange similarity to her own faithful vassal who will not hesitate to slap some sense into her. Quite literally._ _

__Regardless of how impressive he is, she needs to get out of here before the whole church can surround her. Those preparations she had made would end up in vain if she's captured here. So she beckons Hubert, asking him for the instantaneous exit he's capable of._ _

__He does not answer her._ _

__As calmly as she could, she looks over her shoulder to shoot a look at the white-haired mage when he walks forward, misty-eyed. She instinctively places a hand on his shoulder, keeping him in place. "Hubert, get us out of here…" she orders, almost pleading. Her vassal blinks, dazed, as his mouth opens to hopefully speak the spell for teleportation_ _

__What comes out of his mouth is a single word instead. A meaningless word, no, a name; foreign and holds no meaning to her ears._ _

__“Bucciarati?”_ _

__(“Abbacchio...?” he calls back, unsure though hopeful)_ _

**Author's Note:**

> The plot thickens...?


End file.
